The Bat and the Cat
by Canker Blossom
Summary: Bruce Wayne makes his final stop before returning to Gotham in his 12 year journey in training. He's come to the home of one of DC's oldest superheroes. When he leaves, he'll be taking a lot more than fighting techniques with him. Slash.


Here I am. The grass sways in concordance with the summer wind. The sea of leaves makes an eerie sound, a mindless chattering of nature. I'm almost home.

The dirt under my feet swirls with each heavy step, and I swear I can smell the sunset. Clouds dot the horizon like unrefined pearls. Crimson light runs over the sky like blood on pavement. So much like… I'm almost home. I look down. As each breeze passes, it feels like boulders are being flown off of my shoulders, at last being here in the countryside outside of Gotham City. Twelve years I have been gone. Twelve years this city without a savior. How hasn't it shriveled to the ground by now? How is it that the buildings still reach up like outstretched fingers to God? It's just a matter of time, anyhow, before it falls into itself, as all wrecks do. What was it that Zatara said to me once? Oh yes. "The basis of optimism is sheer terror". I'm not afraid. I have no fear. And I'm not an optimist, or a pessimist for that matter. I'm a realist.

Zatanna never understood that distinction. She never understood me. And I guess that feeling was mutual. She had lost her mother by the time I had met her and her father, yet she still had such a positive disposition in everything. It confused me. For a time, she thought that she was in love with me. And I thought I could love this beautiful girl as well, who answered tragedy with a card trick. I thought that maybe I could stay with her. But I always knew deep down that it could never happen. My calling's in Gotham, its shadows, alleys, and the people who hide in them.

I traveled the world and have seen retired men's dreams. Green hills, vast mountains, utopias, kingdoms, all to learn the secrets and crafts they contained. But I would never stay. For my home is Gotham, and it is calling me back now. Paradise is closed to me.

I travel down this road to my last destination before my mission is started. I always remember to stay to one track and to shut out all distractions. If I were to forget the pain of losing my parents, then who am I? Can one be an orphan if they forget their creation? Can one be a savior without a mission? Can a wanderer find a home in hell?

This place is peaceful. Serenity grows from the ground. I approach the old barn I had been spying for the past ten minutes. Its top is empty with no hay. It can no long be called red, but is now brown with scarce chips of crimson paint. Inside I see what I came here for. A boxing ring that looks as if it popped out of a 1930s photograph takes the center with an assortment of equipment orbiting. I see on the wall boxing gloves of all sizes handing from rusty nails. Now to find their owner.

Around the back of the barn is a place I didn't see earlier. It's a tiny farmhouse the same color as the barn, except instead of chips of red paint there are chips of yellow. This could have been a homemaker's farm. A place you went to spend the summer with your grandparents. Not anymore. This place was now a home to a craft. And a man. Looking around the house I still can't find any trace of him besides a few discarded beer bottles on the porch steps next to a rocking chair. My detection skills are still green, but I know I am getting better. I pick up a beer bottle and see the top is still damp with saliva, the glass just slightly warmer than the surrounding bottles. The soil under the gravel near the stairs is darker than the surrounding dirt, suggesting moisture from being recently exposed due to someone walking there. It's easy to detect that someone was once somewhere, but it's more difficult to tell where that someone is. I look up to the window on the top floor, most certainly a bedroom judging by how it's the only light on in the house…

"Who the hell're you?"

I curse to myself for not realizing the other person's presence. I instantly know the owner of the gruff Jersey accent and I turn around to face the man I've been looking for. He hasn't changed so much from the photographs I've seen of him. He's just older now. Rougher, probably in his late forties. I take in everything in observational practice. Gray sweatpants and a white tank top. A white towel wrapped around a thick neck. Red Converse tennis shoes with pipes for calves and legs jutting upward. A thick waist that goes up into a barrel chest. Said chest into broad shoulders, and shoulders down into thick arms. He's a pale man, but not so pale, with ragged black hair tussled from exercise and gray temples along his ears. A chiseled jaw, thin lips, five o'clock shadow, lines around his mouth, a strong nose that looks to have been broken numerous times, and finally his eyes. Sincere. Lines on the edges indicating a lot of laughter. An old soul is visible through gray eyes. Even with the slightly angry look on his face, he still looks friendly. Altogether, he has an inch on me in height.

"I said, kid, who the hell're you and what're you doing here?"  
"John. John Smith." I put out my hand for a handshake, but one never comes. I can tell by an arched eyebrow that he knows I'm using a pseudonym.

"And you're Ted Grant. I've heard about your career and am interested in learning your technique. I am willing to pay you. The variable is yours to fill."

Still, nothing but silence. I push on.

"Please, I've come a long way to see you, and I will not disappoint you as a student. And…"  
"How did you even find me here? This place is a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere."

I planned for this question ahead of time.

"People in the nearby town said you were here. Said you had a recognizable face. You seem to have a fan base here." Complete lie. Ted Grant, formerly the heavyweight champion of the world, formerly the costumed crime fighter Wildcat, had dropped off the public radar seven years prior. It had taken me two years of searching through housing records to find him. He had been staying here, at this old farmhouse in seclusion. A slight smirk appeared on the right side of his mouth.

"Hmph. Legends never die, do they? Guess I shoulda known I couldn't stay hidden forever."  
I stay silent.

"And you wanna be trained to be a champ?"  
"Along those lines."

"Along those… if I'm gonna train you, you have to give your all. Strive for the best. Be a champ."

"I wouldn't give any less than everything, Mr. Grant. You can trust…"

"Number one, call me Ted. Number two, no payment necessary. And number three, come inside. You'd be surprised at how boring this countryside can get considerin' the exciting surroundings. I haven't trained or sparred with anyone in years, so I guess you'll do." He smirked again and threw an arm around me. My duffel dropped to the porch as we went inside. I would just have to get it later.

And that's how it started. I met Ted Grant, my last mentor before my return to Gotham. Even after twelve years of endless training, my mind and body were still hungry for knowledge, for perfection. And here was the end. And in some not so far off tomorrow would be my beginning.

To Be Continued…


End file.
